


put your head on my shoulder

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - College/University, First Dates, Greaser Newt, M/M, Making Out, One Shot, but not shitty because i say so, newt's not actually a bad boy he just pretends to be, wrote this months ago and forgot about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: “Well,” Hermann says, not bothering to even deign a look in Newt’s direction, “I’d recognize that overpowering stench of hair product anywhere. Good afternoon, Geiszler.”It's cold, and dismissive, and it makes Newt’s heart skip a beat.





	put your head on my shoulder

**Author's Note:**

> honestly this fic isn't good but i wrote it a WHILE ago and i may as well just toss it here

Newt’s supposed to meet Mako and Tendo at the diner around three this afternoon. For business, mostly, but also for fun—Mako’s got some spare parts for his bike she’s handing off in exchange for a couple bucks, and there’s also the simple fact that they're some of the only people who can stand spending time with Newt. He’s gotten here plenty early anyway, mostly by mistake, and he’s kind of slumped at the bar and idly stirring the straw around in his milkshake when in walks the object of his not-so-secret affections: Hermann Gottlieb, his sullen, grouchy, dorky, and _handsome_ lab partner. Sweater-vest and plaid pants and all. Newt sits up so fast he knocks his glass over onto the counter. Hermann doesn’t seem to notice him, which Newt is thankful for, because Hermann witnessing him dab up strawberry milkshake from his lap would be too much for him to handle, frankly; he takes a seat at the bar a bit further down and orders a coffee. Black. No sugar.

Newt lurks for a few seconds behind a napkin holder before he decides to take his chance. He straightens his leather jacket, tries to muss up his slicked-back hair in a way that he hopes says _I’m too cool to care about appearances_ , and stool-hops until he’s sidling up alongside Hermann.

Hermann stiffens immediately. 

“Well,” he says, not bothering to even deign a look in Newt’s direction, “I’d recognize that overpowering stench of hair product anywhere. Good afternoon, Geiszler.”  

It's cold, and dismissive, and bordering on outright rude. It makes Newt’s heart skip a beat. “Hi,” he says, and nudges Hermann's shoulder with his own. “Uh. Can I buy you lunch? Or a milkshake? Or more coffee? Anything?”

Hermann cracks open his thick physics textbook and turns a few pages. “I haven’t finished my first coffee yet,” he says, and gestures to his completely untouched cup.

Someone puts a song on the jukebox. Newt likes the opening guitar chords. Maybe if he learned it and played it for Hermann, Hermann’d like it too. Probably not. “I can wait,” Newt says, and smiles cheekily. And then panics a bit; the goal is to be charming, not creepy. Even if Hermann probably thinks he _is_ a creep, and no better than any of the other guys from Newt’s side of town who spend their time tossing lewd comments at chicks and fighting over whose car is faster. “I mean. I’ll wait, unless you really don’t want me to, and then I’ll just go away and leave you alone,” he corrects.

Hermann flips another page. “Mmph,” he says, but he doesn’t say no.

Newt orders another milkshake and watches Hermann read, chin propped on his hands and with—he’s sure—a very lovestruck look on his face. Hermann’s the smartest guy he’s ever met. Total genius. He’s always reading, and writing down long strings of equations on napkins and in the margins of his lab book, and lurking in the lab long after the university closes each night. “What are you working on, Hermann?” he says, twisting this straw around too. “Homework?” He’s probably designing a rocketship or some sort of high-tech submarine. He’s _so_ smart.

“No,” Hermann says. He pushes his glasses up his nose. He doesn’t offer Newt anything else.

“You know,” Newt tries again, “uh, my bike’ll be fixed by this weekend. If you wanted, we could—” Go to the drive-in, or go for a ride, or find some field where Hermann could tell Newt all about the stars and planets. 

Hermann closes his book. “ _Geiszler_ ,” he says, gently, and Newt takes his cue to scoot back over to his original stool before Hermann canes him upside the head or something.

 

* * *

 

Newt’s motorcycle gets fixed, eventually, and he takes it on its maiden voyage post-repair that weekend. He was planning on spending a few hours out and about, but it's clear very fast he chose a bad day: the sky opens up when Newt’s not even a twenty minute ride from his dingy little apartment, and he’s gotta not only turn around, but be _extra_ careful so that he doesn’t go swerving and crashing into a tree or something. Plus (to a lesser extent) his hair’s ruined. At least it’s not a complete loss: he spots a familiar figure lurking under a tree on the sidewalk about five minutes back, scowling up at the sky, so he pulls over and hops off with a grin.

“Hey, Hermann!” he says. “Enjoying the rain?”

“I only wanted a walk,” Hermann says with a little sigh. He’s drenched and shivering, hair hanging in his face, his round glasses fogged up. It’s a bit pathetic. Before he can stop himself, Newt’s shrugging off his leather jacket and passing it over. “What?” Hermann says, blinking at him.

Newt shakes the jacket. “Take it. You’re freezing.” He gets another idea. “Here, c’mon, I’ll give you a ride back to your place.”

“I don’t need—” Hermann begins, eyeing the jacket warily, and Newt scoffs.

“Man, c’mon. It’s not gonna stop any time soon.” Hermann relents and takes the jacket, pulling it on quickly. “You live on campus, right?” He’s _sure_ Hermann’s family set him up with enough dough before they sent him abroad for him to live comfortably in the campus dorms. Maybe even the nice ones.

“Yes,” Hermann says. “The, ah, eastside.”

Definitely the nice ones, then. “Swell,” Newt says. He hops back on his bike. Hermann doesn’t follow him, just stands and stares, a little silly-looking in Newt’s too-big jacket. “What are you waiting for?”

Hermann looks down at his cane. “I’m not sure…”

“Oh!” Newt says. “Duh. Okay, let’s—”

It takes a little maneuvering, but they’re able to arrange themselves so Hermann can cling to Newt’s back while also holding his cane lengthwise at an angle that won’t get in the way of the wheels or handles. “You ready back there, sweetheart?” Newt says, loudly to be heard over the rain pelting the pavement. It’s _real_ nice, having Hermann pressed closed to him like this: his chest warm against Newt’s back, his arms tight round Newt’s stomach, his breath hot on Newt’s neck. A little too nice. He’s glad for the fucking freezing rain, suddenly.

“Don’t call me that,” Hermann says. Newt revs the engine, and Hermann’s grip tightens and he buries his face in Newt’s t-shirt. “Oh, this is a terrible idea,” he groans, muffled, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Newton.”

“Sure I do,” Newt says, unreasonably pleased that Hermann called him _Newton_ and not Geiszler, and off they go.

He gets Hermann back to his swanky digs in no time, and more importantly, without crashing the bike. He’d love a kiss on the cheek, maybe a little hug goodbye, but Hermann’s real professional about it all, just thanks Newt for the ride and climbs off very, very carefully, so Newt stays professional too. Hermann tries to return the jacket to Newt, but Newt refuses. “Nah,” he says. “Just give it back later. I don’t care.” Hermann looks too cute in it.

“If you’re sure,” Hermann says, pulling it back on. Then he nods stiffly, cheeks a little pink. His glasses slide down his nose with the movement. “Thank you, Newton. This was...very generous of you.”

Newt’s heart skips a beat. He beams goofily at Hermann. “You’re welcome!”

He waits until he’s sure Hermann’s safely inside before he rides off.

He’s _gone_ on the guy.

 

* * *

 

He picks Hermann up from his dorm that night and gets him whatever he wants at the diner, like he fantasized about doing earlier—a milkshake, hamburger, fries, two of each, _three_ of each, Hermann just needs to name it. “One of each is fine,” Hermann says, gently, but Newt orders him two anyway. Hermann’s wearing Newt’s jacket over his usual sweatervest and tartan. He hasn’t tried to give it back to Newt yet; Newt’s not sure if he would’ve accepted it even if he tried.

Hermann holds Newt’s hand over the table during dessert, lets Newt swing him around on the grimy dance floor a few times, and when Newt walks him back home (giddy, something bubbly rising in his chest, and singing the song they danced to at the top of his lungs), he _does_ get that kiss on the cheek this time.

“ _Wow_ , Hermann!” Newt says, unable to stop himself, and Hermann just looks smug.

“Pick me up next week,” he says, and—after adjusting Newt’s collar with one hand, making sure to trail his fingers over the little bit of exposed skin—leaves Newt blushing furiously and blinking dumbly behind him.

 

* * *

 

“I said pick me up,” Hermann says, clacking angrily across the sidewalk and looking very cute, as always. He’s still in the tartan and sweater and saddle shoes, with Newt’s jacket over his shoulders, but his sweater is a little neater than usual and his hair is lying flat for once. No cowlick. Newt misses the cowlick. “Not—”

“It was easier than knocking,” Newt says with a grin. He can’t see why Hermann’s so mad about it; he knows which bedroom is Hermann’s, why’s it matter if he threw rocks at his window instead of knocking or beeping the car horn? Easier, like he said, and also _faster_. Romantic, too, in Newt’s humble opinion.

“You’re a menace,” Hermann says, “I ought to cancel our date right now,” but he kisses Newt’s cheek in greeting.

Newt borrowed his dad’s car for the night, because it seemed like the much more... _official_ way to take a guy like Hermann to the drive-in, but he’s only ever driven his bike before so he’s not totally sure what he’s doing. They make it there okay, even if Hermann ends up having to help him park, and then Newt’s left with an entirely new set of worries: he’s got Hermann in his passenger’s seat. Hermann, the dreamiest guy ever. He knows the kind of things Hermann probably _expects_ him to try (alone, together, at a drive-in theater), but he’s not sure if Hermann would slap him if he tried. Unless he gets offended if Newt _doesn’t_ try. Newt’s never done anything like that before, though, never even kissed someone, so he’s not totally sure—

“Newton,” Hermann says, and puts his hand on Newt’s knee.

 

* * *

 

The backseat of Newt’s dad’s car fits them both easily, with some careful arranging of limbs and even more careful arranging of Newt onto Hermann’s lap. They’ve all but forgotten the movie (which is kinda a bummer, Newt loves monster flicks) and the sodas and candy Newt shelled out a pretty amount of dough for. He’s not mad, though—this is _much_ better. Kissing Hermann is better than anything he could’ve possible imagined. “Jeez, Hermann,” Newt moans, as Hermann shoves his hands under Newt’s shirt and kisses at his neck, “you’re _great_ at this. Wow!”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Newton,” Hermann says, and rips his sweater off over his head. He pulls Newt’s hands to his chest and dives back in to kiss him again hungrily, and Newt runs his hands over Hermann’s pecs, feeling how warm he is even through his collared shirt.

“Wow,” he gasps again, like an idiot, as Hermann starts to suck at a little spot on Newt’s throat, and everything starts to feel a little fuzzy but _good_ and he wishes he knew where to put his hands, “uh, what if—maybe I haven’t totally done—?”

Hermann freezes, mid-unbuckling Newt’s belt, and pulls away to look at him. “You haven’t?”

Newt laughs nervously. “I’ve been _busy_ , man.” Degrees take time. Hermann should know this better than anyone.

“Oh, Newton,” Hermann says. He leans in and kisses Newt very gently. “Would you like to stop? I didn’t mean—”

“No _way_!” Newt says. “Please don’t stop. This is—” Newt searches desperately for the word that combines how utterly unfuckingbelievable this is with how _hot_ and _cool_ and _incredible_ this is, “—swell.” He winces. But Hermann doesn’t tease him, just slides his fingers through Newt’s hair and smiles and keeps kissing him gently.

Newt doesn’t mind missing the movie. Mostly.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter at hermanngaylieb, tumblr at hermannsthumb!


End file.
